For Maya, defining her feelings by means of language—giving each of her emotions a name—made them more real to her. In my case, it made them less real. Every time I attempted to explain my emotions to somebody, I felt my personality shrinking into a line drawing, tightly boxed and inadequately labeled ... and then fading into the paper and disappearing altogether.

He bent an elbow and offered me a forearm. I ran my finger, with slow ecstasy, along one of the sensuous grooves. The soft, squishy sound of my fingertip dragging along the rubber seemed thunderous in my ears, and I could swear I felt his skin warming through the rubber, beneath my touch.

“Karkataka, or How the Crab Got Its Knees” was published at Ruthie’s Club in 2008. [Paid membership required—and apologies to Kipling.]

Soon Man-Man felt so good that he didn’t know what to do. So he grunted like the Assiduous Elephant (which is a kind of Elephant that grunts) and growled like the Corrugated Sea-Camel (which is a kind of Sea-Camel that isn’t corrugated, but which had succumbed to a taxonomical error). And, as if by calibration, his horn delivered warm treacle into Woman-Woman’s oyster, even though she hadn’t ’spressly ordered it and nobody really has treacle with oysters.

“The Secret to Perfect Fondue” was published at Eros Monthly in 2008.

“Vacation Plans” was published at Eros Monthly in 2008.

“Vivian’s Checklist” was published at Eros Monthly in 2008.

“The Moment She’d Been Waiting For” was published in Scarlet magazine in 2008.

They had matured right in step with each other, not only emotionally but also physically. The same still-nearly-invisible gray hairs, appearing unannounced. The same subtle thickening of the body, from “slight” to “svelte.” The same little lines around each woman’s mouth, which identified the wearer as someone who laughed long, hard, and often.

“Any Friend of Hers” was published at Justus Roux’s Erotic Tales in 2008.

She had to know. She could not work at this desk all day, in the middle of a busy city, and not be aware of when her panties were or were not visible to the casual observer. This really mattered to me. Because, if it were an accident, it would not be polite to let my gaze linger there, or return there between paintings. If, however, it was intentional—as I supposed—then I owed it to both of us to make the most of it.